


Nobody Drinks Alone

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drinking & Talking, Drinking to Cope, Frenemies, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, post-coup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: After the coup d'etat, Andrei is trying desperately to cope. Brockdorff, as usually, isn't actually helping.





	Nobody Drinks Alone

Gudovich drinks, but almost never like this – alone, in a mostly-deserted inn and civilian dress, cradling a tall glass of vodka with a clear intent of finishing off the entire bottle, eventually. Perhaps two, if he can manage to stay conscious for that long. The alcohol has dulled the sharp pang of emotion, filling his head with muffled buzzing and flighty, unsettled thoughts. He ought to go home, but home is a strange and foreign word these past couple of days. What is he to call home when they have taken everything that matters away from him – friendship, faith, honor, love… He takes another drink and grimaces at the stinging heat that coats his throat and spreads through his chest. 

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Gudovich does not bother looking up. “I’d rather be alone, thank you.”

“Oh, Andrei, don’t you know?” Baron von Brockdorff slides into the seat across from him despite the refused request. “Nobody drinks alone.” 

Gudovich looks up and winces in half-irritation, half-fond familiarity: only Brockdorff could look smug in full mourning and with unmistakable dark circles under his eyes. He glances at the mug in Brockdorff’s hand and finds himself asking, “is beer nearly enough? How can you stand it?” For a moment, their eyes meet and Gudovich thinks that this is the first time Brockdorff has looked at him with anything other than contempt, condescension or flat antagonism. 

And for once, Brockdorff is the first to look away. “I can’t.” He takes a long drink from his mug before continuing. “Which is probably why I am here.” 

“Drinking?”

“With you.”

Gudovich sighs and returns to his staring match with the vodka in his own glass. He does not know what to say to that or what exactly Brockdorff means. They had never been friends, quite the opposite in fact, so he has no idea why Brockdorff would seek him out as opposed to Ruhmberg or Kihl or even Liza Vorontsov. “Why?”

Brockdorff’s smile is joyless. “We have nothing left to squabble over, Andrei. While this grief—this grief is ours together. No one loved him like we did; no one blames themselves like we do.”

Gudovich swallows and drinks again. Brockdorff, as usual, isn’t actually helping. 

“And you’re right. I can’t stand it. Being there, at the palace… I can’t work, because work is basically packing up the household, going through his personal things—I go into a room and somehow still expect one thing only to see another. If I close my eyes I can still hear his laughter and smell the smoke from the last time we had fireworks at Oranienbaum. Every violin is him; every changing of the guard makes me think of how much Peter loved those damn parades.” 

“ _Don’t._ ” This is the first time Gudovich has ever heard Brockdorff refer to Peter by name instead of title and that is the final straw. He came here to escape just that – the onslaught of memories and jarring changes in the things he has held most dear for the last few years. “Please.” 

They are silent for some time, each contemplating his own drink. Finally, Brockdorff says, “They’re going to ask you to stay. In service, I mean.” 

Gudovich scoffs. “I’ll be damned if I serve that snake.” 

Brockdorff nods with something akin to understanding on his face. “Just…try to not get yourself thrown into a cell.”

“What is it to you?”

“Nothing.” Brockdorff finishes off his drink. “But Peter would have wanted you to stay safe.” 

The burning in Gudovich’s throat is no longer from the alcohol and he wishes vehemently that Brockdorff would leave. For all that he appreciates the gesture and, in truth, the company of someone whose presence does not make him outright nauseated right now, he is here to escape his new reality, not face it. He cannot face it. Not yet. So when Brockdorff stands, Gudovich feels his muscles unclench in relief. 

“Send for a carriage at the end of the night, would you?” Brockdorff puts a hand on his shoulder briefly and walks away without another word. Andrei stares forlornly at the bottle, which is still one-third full, and calls for a second. 

Tomorrow, he will resign with demonstrative, dangerous flare. Tomorrow, after hearing of General Rumyantsev’s resignation and the confrontations in the taverns, he will wonder how many people they could get to resign, how many men would choose their honor. (And realizes instantly, bitterly, that the answer would be: not enough, not nearly enough.) He will think that the cadets who wear mourning ribbons in violation of orders are better men than most of the people he knows. 

Tomorrow, he will vow to never swear oaths of any kind ever again, as they are meaningless, flimsy things, a vow he will forego years later when Pavel Petrovich ascends to the throne. (Brockdorff will tell him, not unkindly, that he had once vowed to never love, but it hadn’t stopped him from loving. Gudovich will keep his mouth shut and refill their glasses with disgustingly cheap vodka.) Tomorrow, he will pack his things and tell Brockdorff in no uncertain terms that they will leave for Kiel together. (Brockdorff will give him a long, searching look before, finally, nodding in acceptance.)

But all of that will be tomorrow. 

Tonight, Gudovich wants to drink, and maybe, if he’s lucky, forget.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally as a scene that was intended to be a part of a longer story. That never panned out (or hasn't yet, anyway) and I decided this was complete enough to be posted as a standalone ficlet.


End file.
